


Twinkle

by alienchrist



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienchrist/pseuds/alienchrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean preferred to think of himself as ordinary. He did not dream of adventures. He dreamed of wearing the uniform of the royal guard and sleeping on a feather bed. He harbored no secret desire to be lauded as a hero or marry a princess, he simply wanted to live somewhere that smelled better than rotten fish and a river mired in sewage.</p><p>The night before he left to join the royal guard, a light through his window like sunrise startled him from sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes and threw open the curtains. Someone sat perched on his window sill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twinkle

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Jearmin Reverse Bang 2015, as inspired by [this](http://jean-huh-kirschnickerdoodle.tumblr.com/post/118764364628/to-touch-a-star-full-view-my-other-piece-for-the) amazing picture by [jean-huh-kirschnickerdoodle](http://jean-huh-kirschnickerdoodle.tumblr.com/). I'm so happy we got to work together on this!

_Once upon a time, there was a handsome little boy named Jean who lived with his parents in a humble little house in a bustling little town by a river in the land of Sina. Because the boy was so very clever, sometimes he had trouble making friends. But his mother and father believed in him. They cried on the day he left home with a knapsack full of home-cooked meals and hand-knitted sweaters._

_"Son, we love you," said his mother, "Don't ever forget your dear old parents when you have found your fortune."_

_"I won't!" Jean said, looking toward the setting sun to hide his tears. "Thank you for everything, mother, father. I'm off on adventure!"_

So the story Jean's mother told him went. This bedtime tale featured a myriad of adventures, different every night, that always ended his triumph. Some nights he slew a giant, others he rescued a princess and married her. By the time he reached age eleven, he thought himself too grown up for the stories and told his mother he no longer needed to be tucked in. By the time he turned eighteen, his own vision of life looked very different than his mother's tale.

For one thing, he knew his mother exaggerated about his looks. Even when she tried to cut his hair in a stylish way, no one ever noticed him. The only comment he received about his looks involved complaints about his impudent glare. His house and hometown a heap of trash piled upon the river bank. Giants existed only in legend, and the daughters of the king were laughably far from his reach. The only part that rang true was his lack of friends.

Jean preferred to think of himself as ordinary. He did not dream of adventures. He dreamed of wearing the uniform of the royal guard and sleeping on a feather bed. He harbored no secret desire to be lauded as a hero or marry a princess, he simply wanted to live somewhere that smelled better than rotten fish and a river mired in sewage.

The night before he left to join the royal guard, a light through his window like sunrise startled him from sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes and threw open the curtains. Someone sat perched on his window sill.

Perhaps some mischievous boy from one of the houses nearby fell while exploring, he did much the same in younger years, climbing about on trees and rooftops. But this boy glowed like a figure poured from molten metal, too bright and hot to yet hold solid form.

Jean squinted, unable to make more than a halo of gold hair and slender arms and legs. The glowing boy had eyes blue as the river reflecting the clear morning sky.

"Who are you?" Jean asked, shading his eyes.

In the manner of dreams, the glowing boy slipped through the window without opening it. In spite of this they somehow embraced: the glowing boy put arms around Jean as Jean settled shaking hands onto soft hips. Whoever-he-was had yet to speak a word of introduction. Jean wondered if he could. As he opened his mouth to ask more questions, the glowing boy pressed soft lips to his.

Kisses flowed from Jean like rainwater spilling over cobblestone, his body overtaken by raw, naked craving unlike any he'd felt before.

Light surrounded and covered Jean as he pulled the glowing boy closer. The being surrounded Jean with a strange embrace, his mouth filled and tongue covered, fingers surrounded by gold. This light overwhelmed even his lower, covered regions. Jean grew hard from the gentle warmth, much to his horror. It seemed inappropriate.

He wanted to close his eyes, as if going further into the dream would end it, but could not look away. The glowing boy stared into him. His halo of gold hair moved like weeds drifting gently under water.

"That's interesting," said the glowing boy with a voice as pure as a bell.

"I asked you who you were before and you didn't say anything," Jean growled, suddenly annoyed. "Who are you? What is this?"

The glowing boy tittered, but did not reply.

Jean woke up to a dark room and a tent in his underclothes.

All part of growing up, Jean told himself. He prompted himself to forget.

 

As predicted by the story, Jean's parents cried when he left home. He could not bring himself to promise them much. "I'll be back to celebrate the new year," Jean mumbled, "Otherwise, I'll write in advance if I come visit."

His shadow stretched long across the cobblestone as he walked away. Jean didn't turn back. The rising sun hurt his eyes too much.

 

The seaside estate of Lady Historia sat wedged between the far border of Sina and cold, rocky cliffs. Though the house was little more than a drafty, refurbished military base meant as a summer home, Lady Historia lived there throughout the year. Within the first few days of Jean's posting he deemed the job painfully monotonous. The royal guard's scant presence at the estate stayed mostly for show. Far from the line of succession as the king's illegitimate daughter, Lady Historia bore little risk of being assassinated or kidnapped. Even the border needed only the most cursory of defending: their neighbors in the land of Maria hadn't been seen in nearly two hundred years. Civil war and epidemic thinned their already small numbers long ago, and eventually all exports and news stopped crossing the border.

Suspicion surrounded the land of Maria: rumors someone cursed it during the war, that its once great rulers resorted to dark magic and destroyed themselves, that its people were transformed into monsters and giants. The wall between the countries stood high and strong, only just low enough for someone tall as Jean to see the other side. The only gap in the wall served to let a small, unloved dirt road through. He guarded the so-called gate several times a week on rotation. Not so much as a farmer with a rickety cart or a muddy page with a handwritten letter ever approached from the tangled woods that crept all the way up to Maria's side of the wall.

Jean never saw anything remotely unusual. He never hoped to.

In the weeks after his assignment he grew stronger. He climbed the steep, stair like cliffs in his off hours and grew a hearty appetite breathing in fresh sea air. He could not help but remember the taste of his mother's fluffy omelets or hearty stews as he choked down gluey gruel and chowders. His back ached a little from the lumps in his bed, but for the most part, he found himself content to be far from his mediocre home. Days passed peacefully, though he learned early on not to bother the lady.

Jean met Lady Historia on the cliffs one day and greeted her as he'd been trained. "A fine morning, milady," he said with a bow.

The captain of the guard, Ymir, was always seen in the lady's company. She sneered, "It's hilarious that you think you have the right to speak to her. And why aren't you on duty?"

"It's my day off, ma'am," Jean gritted through his teeth.

"He can speak to me as friends, Ymir," Historia said, reaching up to clap Ymir on the shoulder. "No need to to pretend we haven't been shoved out in the middle of nowhere nowhere because we're eyesores everywhere else."

"We are the first defense against Maria should they rise again on this front," Jean said with a grimace, "And I'm honored to be here."

"Someone's been talking to Guardsman Bodt," Historia said with a roll of her eyes. "Protect our beloved royal family, even the king's bastard daughter. Trust me, you don't need to suck up to me. I can tell when someone's just trying to tell me what I want to hear."

Historia sniffed, hacked like a cat, and spat a ball of snot to the ground. Ymir slapped her on the back with her fist like a hammer. "Nice!"

"Besides," Historia said more seriously, "Ymir and I are all this country would ever need against an invasion from Maria."

"Yes milady," Jean said, dumbfounded.

"Want to help me scale the cliff?" Historia asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Today, as most days, she wore britches rather than the flowing skirts befitting a lady.

"Yes milady, let me get some rope."

"I have no need for that," said Historia with a laugh and a flip of her long, blond hair.

Historia knew the cliffs well, and scaled the face of this one with nimbleness a cat would envy. Ymir crowed with delight when she reached the bottom.

"Nice work!" she called. "Now it's my turn!"

 

Jean often wiled the nights away with his bunk mate, guardsman Marco Bodt. They preferred the quiet lamplight of their quarters. The fires in the mess hall were awfully loud, accompanying even louder conversation.

Some evenings they played cards, others, they chatted. No matter how he tried to Jean over, Marco's optimism and love for the monarchy weren't particularly infectious. Jean came to think of Marco's companionship as a bizarre tolerance bred from proximity. Still, midnight conversations over ale could masquerade as friendship.

Deep into his cups, Marco once confessed, "I hate patrolling the wall. Sometimes I feel eyes watching me."

"So go home if you're that scared," Jean said with a swig, "The captain probably wouldn't even notice for a week or two, she's so far up the lady's petticoats. Give me your good pillow and I'll pretend I know nothing about it."

"Lady Historia doesn't wear -- that's beside the point. It's my duty to work here! I took vows when I enlisted, we both did! I swore my life to the king, I did not think this is where it would take me."

"There's nothing beyond the wall, and there hasn't been for years," Jean said. He searched for familiar constellations in the sky outside his window. "I don't blame you for being spooked. This place is so dull your mind is working to find something to do."

"You're right, it's probably nothing," Marco said. "Thanks for listening."

"Yeah," Jean said.

Jean could not think of the last time he made study of the sky, but he could swear the stars looked brighter on Maria's side of the wall. None of them seemed to be where they should be.

He did not tell Marco what he saw.

 

"Jean! Wake up, you useless barnacle!"

An urgent knocking at the door yanked Jean from a deep sleep. He cursed his life and belched, tasting ale. He recognized the captain of the guard's voice.

"What is it? I'm not on shift until later tonight," he called through the door as he searched for his tunic.

"Marco is injured, so you're taking his shift guarding the wall. Hop to it!"

"Marco is hurt?" Jean got dressed in moments, throwing the door open. Ymir still stood outside the door. "Did something happen?"

"He turned up here as white as a sheet, looking half dead," Ymir spoke grimly. "He said something about a dark-haired girl, and a book, and fainted away. We took him to the infirmary. When he woke up, he started raving again. We think he's gone a bit touched in the head."

"Do you mean he went mad?" Jean recalled how he dismissed Marco's fears. He hadn't thought they were anything serious. He hadn't really listened.

"People's minds start to go, living here. Maybe it's the boredom, or the legacy of the land of Maria, but he wouldn't be the first."

"Let me see him." Jean's heart sank into the pit of his stomach, though he couldn't be sure why.

"Fine," Ymir said, "I'll take you to him."

Ymir's boots clacked heavily against the stone floors, long strides, heavier than her weight suggested.

"I know where the infirmary is," Jean said after a moment. "There's no need for an escort."

Ymir shrugged dismissively.

Jean asked her, "What do you mean people's minds start to go?"

"They think too hard about how they live next to a giant graveyard, and they can't stomach it. They used to post elderly soldiers out here, ones close to retiring, since there's never much going on. But they kept deserting their posts. I saw one take off running into the woods in Maria, shouting the name of her dead husband."

"People _do_ say the land is cursed."

 _This place is so dull your mind is working to find something to do._ That's what he said to Marco.

"People say a lot of things," Ymir scoffed. "Don't tell me you believe all of it."

"It sounds like a fairy tale," Jean agreed. "You've been posted here a long time, and your mind is fine," he reasoned, "Mostly."

"Fuck you too, guardsman," Ymir retorted with a nasty grin.

 

"I can't go back there, Jean. Don't let the captain send me back."

Marco could barely find the strength to bring a cup of tea to his lips. The weight of holding up the cup while sitting in bed seemed to bend him like a willow branch. He trembled as if assailed by a strong wind. More disturbing than the pallor Ymir reported was Marco's hair. Once a rich black sable, it was now shocking white.

"What the hell happened?" Jean whispered. "The doctor said you weren't hurt."

"I found this book in the middle of the road, right near the gate on our side. When I bent to pick it up, I saw this young woman. She had black hair, and black eyes, and a scarf as red as blood. She said _that's mine_. When I looked into her eyes, I - I saw..."

"You can tell me," Jean said. How he wanted to be gentle, and yet he said, "Spit it out."

"Death," Marco gasped. "I held up the book for her to take, but when she reached out for it, her hand disappeared. It simply faded, like mist in the sun, while the rest of her remained on the other side of the wall. You have to tell the guard captain. I won't go back."

"You won't have to," Jean assured him. "I'm going instead."

"We should brick over that gate," Marco said, voice rising high with notes of panic. "If a book could get through, who knows what else could!"

"The gate stays open," Ymir said from the door, "We'd never get the funds to brick it up like that for no reason. And you will go home, Guardsman Bodt. Get some rest, that's an order."

"Yes ma'am," Marco whimpered.

"I'll see you soon," Jean said.

"Death lies beyond that wall," Marco croaked. "Be careful."

 

"Something happened to my friend out there," Jean hissed at Ymir the moment he as sure Marco wouldn't hear. "You can't say that's nothing. Something must have brought that on."

"These things happen," Ymir muttered.

"Did you even care enough to listen to his story?" Jean demanded. "I'd be the last person to believe it, but you saw his hair. Something frightened him, it took years off his life!"

"I investigated the area thoroughly after Marco returned. There was no sign of a book or anyone around. You're free to look yourself. I need to make arrangements to send Marco home. Go relieve Sasha at the gate."

"...Yes ma'am," Jean complied with a scowl.

 

"Any signs of trouble, Sasha?" Jean asked the other guard as he approached the gate. As far as he could see, the tangled woods were as deserted as ever.

"None, but it doesn't feel right. I never noticed it before. It's always awfully quiet and still up here. There should be birds and deer, and there's nothing. Just green and gray."

"I didn't take you for superstitious," Jean said.

"I know the woods," Sasha replied. She shuddered, then shook her head. "The air out here is different from the woods back home. You get the breeze from the sea sometimes, but I swear the leaves don't stir."

"Take a breather," Jean said, "Then the guard captain needs your help with getting a horse ready for Marco."

"Don't they have servants for that?" Sasha complained, but seemed glad to leave in a hurry.

Jean watched his cohort leave, thinking of the stories she told about hunting boars in her days before joining the royal guard. He did not doubt Sasha's experience or instincts. Now alone, the silence rang loud in Jean's ears. He heard the cry of gulls and the waves beating rocks not far away. The coarse crack of someone chopping wood for the cook's fire split the air in a predictable rhythm. The land of Maria lurked behind him, silent, imposing and still as a coffin.

Jean spotted something gleaming across the road from where he stood, a bit of gold beneath a shrub. He dropped to a crouch to examine what caught the sunlight in such an unusual way. It was a simple old book, leather bound and finely made. There were no words on the spine or cover, only a five-pointed star a little smaller than his palm embossed on the front, stamped in gold.

"This must be the book Marco dropped," Jean said. He looked up past the gap in the wall into the land of Maria, expecting some sort of change or reply. Nothing.

Everything inside the book appeared handwritten, yet Jean could not make out words or sense out of any of it. Each line seemed written and over-written a thousand times until no single word could be discerned. There were pictures, too, soft ink sketches of people and places unknown to Jean. Nothing struck him as familiar until he reached the end third of the book.

He saw a picture of himself, staring out the window of his childhood home, looking glum.

"No," Jean said, as if the picture were a question that he could answer, even refuse. "I don't believe in that shit. I am not interested."

Not wanting to look a moment more, Jean took a step back and threw the book over the wall as hard as he could. Soon followed the sound of twigs cracking and leaves rustling, and a faint thud as the book finished its descent.

"Ouch!" came a cry from the other side of the wall.

Jean spent a half moment seriously considering desertion. He could make it to a town in a day or so. He could become a cobbler or a tailor or a farmer, or some other risk-free job. It would be simple. Maybe he'd never get that feather bed, but he wouldn't have to confront the eyes of death, either.

Jean sucked in a breath through his teeth to give himself strength to stand. He stared defiantly from the center of the road, waiting to see something that would frighten him out of his skin.

There stood a boy his age with eyes as blue as the sea reflecting the sky at dusk. His features were delicate, so much that Jean could not feel certain his original assessment of 'boy' was correct.

"Did you just throw a book?" asked the stranger, his voice clear and musical as a bell.

Jean blinked. The stranger (who might not be a boy) did not disappear.

"Excuse me," called the stranger like a child asking permission. "I'm talking to you. Can you hear me?"

His voice sounded familiar, something out of a dream Jean insisted on forgetting.

The stranger went barefoot, dressed in white rags that might once have been a bed sheet. His chin length blond hair was windswept-wild.

"I threw the book," Jean said, more challenge than confession. "Do you know who it belongs to?"

"It doesn't really belong to anyone," said the stranger with a frown, "But if you thought it did, why did you throw it? That's a little rude."

"What are you doing over there?" Jean asked. "Everyone thinks the people in your land have died out completely."

"A lot of people died." The stranger nodded. "But sometimes people come through this gate and wind up staying here."

"Can you come over here? I think the lady of this estate would like to meet you."

"I cannot," the stranger said, "Can you come over here?"

"That sounds like a terrible idea."

"Are you sure?" Disappointment. "I actually need your help with something."

"I'm not getting mixed up with anything weird," Jean insisted. "Do you know a girl with dark hair and a red scarf?"

"She is my friend," said the stranger, "She didn't mean to frighten that other boy. She is really very gentle, so long as you don't cross her."

"How comforting. Who are you?"

The stranger hesitated.

"You won't say?"

The stranger said, "You don't want to get mixed up in anything weird. So why do you want to know more about me?"

Jean let out an exaggerated sigh of frustration. "What kind of trouble could come from us introducing ourselves? It's easy. Listen. My name is Jean. I work at the estate over there. I'm supposed to guard this hole in the wall which everyone calls a gate."

A slow smile spread over the stranger's features, seeming to radiate from his heart to the tips of his toes. "You can call me Armin. Like the constellation."

"Which constellation? I've never heard of it."

"Armin means _protector_ ," Armin said, as if that explained everything.

"Still haven't heard of it," Jean grunted.

"Maybe you shouldn't worry so much about whether you know about constellations, and wonder more if the constellations know about you."

"This conversation is officially too odd for me," Jean said, "Wait here. I'll bring the lady of the house out to meet you."

"I'd really rather you not. I'd really rather talk to you, Jean."

"You can talk to me all you want if you come with me," Jean said testily.

"Can you be so sure of that? I would get to be with you, no harm would come to me?"

"Y--" Jean stopped before he made a promise he could not be sure to keep. "You should talk to the lady of the estate. Just stay there a moment, I'll bring her out." He turned, ready to bolt to the doors of the house.

"Goodbye for now, Jean," Armin said.

When Jean turned to look, the view from the gate stood empty as ever.

"This is just the sort of thing I didn't want to happen!" Jean complained loudly, just in case Armin could hear him.

 

After Marco returned home, life resumed at the estate resumed its schedule with a fierce fervor. The guards and servants worked harder than ever, yet spoke to one another half as much. Jean told no one about of Armin, though he spoke to the strange boy nearly every sunny day.

Ymir shot down suggestions that two people guard the wall just in case. That would require a restructuring of the rotation, too soon after making up for an absent guard. In other words, she said it would be too much to bother her with.

"You didn't argue with her about it," Sasha pointed out as they left their weekly meeting. "You always argue."

"I do not," Jean argued.

Each day he guarded the gate Jean took extra care to comb his hair and straighten his tunic. He even considered stealing into Lady Historia's room to steal a glance into her looking glass, but deemed it too risky. Besides, Armin always appeared the same: dressed in rags, barefoot, with hair mussed by the seaside wind. He seemed content to simply sit in the center of the dirt road, close enough to the wall that he might stick his hand past the border of Sina. If Jean did not speak to him, he would sit in silence, watching the gulls drift by the shoreline.

"You must have a home nearby," Jean said one day.

"I must?" Armin said. "It's true, though. I live in the sky."

"Don't be daft."

Armin shrugged. "My home would be close, then, wouldn't it?"

"Are there schools in Maria to teach you how not to be foolish? Are there farms and roads? Where is everyone else?"

"School isn't important to me. I learn things by observing them," Armin said. "What about you?"

"I went to school," Jean said, "It bored me, but I did alright. Or at least I thought I did, but when I enlisted, they sent me here."

"This isn't a good place to be? It's pretty. You can see the ocean."

"You tell me."

Armin snickered. "I wouldn't know what you find good. Not much, I think."

"Anyway, you didn't answer my question."

"You asked if I went to school, and I said--"

"You know what I mean! About the people there!"

"I'm not sure I do know what you mean," Armin said. Jean groaned out loud.

So their days went, dancing around each other and revealing little. Still, Jean combed his hair and straightened his tunic every day he spent at the gate, even on cloudy or rainy days when Armin never visited.

"You're smiling a lot lately," Sasha said, peering into his face at supper one day. "Usually you look constipated. Did something good happen?"

"Why are you thinking about what I look like when I'm constipated?" Jean asked sourly.

"I don't," Sasha said reasonably. "Your face just makes me think of constipation."

 

In the mornings when they changed guard Sasha often took off early, meeting Jean halfway down the road. Leaving the gate so unguarded would earn them a scolding, but Sasha always made excuses, yawning loud and wide. There never seemed to be anyone around to see where Armin came from when he visited, he simply sat there waiting. He would answer no questions as to his origins, and only appeared for Jean. Were Jean the sort to believe in such things, he might suspect an enchantment. Still Jean told himself he spoke to the boy out of duty, in hopes of learning something important.

He came to look forward to meeting Armin so much he deeply felt his absence one clear morning when he did not appear.

In the center of the road sat a sword with a red ribbon tied around its pommel. Jean looked back toward the estate. Though soldiers were required to learn the use of broadswords, most made do with a simple, light dagger at the waist while patrolling. Sasha also carried her bow and arrows just in case she saw something delicious.

She would have shown off a new weapon immediately. Under no circumstance would she leave something so dangerous and expensive lying around. 

The sword was well-balanced. Unlike the broadswords or daggers carried in Sina, it held a slight curve, clearly meant to be wielded with an entirely different technique. The blade cut like moonlight through a cloudless winter night: sharp, cold and unforgiving. Jean found himself smiling wickedly as he practiced swings and stances. Halfway to fixing it to his belt, he recalled the foreign book he found before.

He looked through the gap in the wall. There stood Armin.

"Excuse me," Armin said, "That's mine."

"What ever happened to that book I threw?" Jean asked.

"Can you please give me back the sword?" Armin said, "It doesn't belong to you."

"And I'm supposed to believe it belongs to you? You've never had a sword before."

"I dropped it."

"How? You never come to this side of the wall. I bet you threw it."

"It's not yours to keep," Armin said, calm and steady as a parent to a misbehaving child.

"Tough. I'm keeping it."

"Suit yourself," Armin said. "I think Marco said the same thing about the book. Something about showing it to the lady of the house..."

"You're lying." Jean glowered at Armin.

Armin deflected, looking off to one side. "I wasn't going to say anything. He seemed like a nice boy, what happened was such a shame."

"You saw what happened to him?!"

"I was there."

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I thought you'd get mad," Armin said in a tiny voice with a tiny frown.

With the addition of anger, the stew of suspicion that grew in Jean's stomach since he met Armin boiled over. "Damn right I'm mad! That's it, I'm taking you in!"

Jean stormed through the gap in the wall, grabbing Armin's wrist with his free hand.

At that very moment, someone else grabbed his other hand. The sword he held was gone, and there stood a girl with a red scarf and glittering black eyes. "Don't touch Armin," she said, and punched Jean in the gut.

"What?!" he wheezed out as he doubled over. Armin dropped down next to him, squeezing his shoulders.

"I'm sorry about this," he said sincerely. He kissed Jean briefly on the lip and whispered, "Go to sleep."

Jean closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I had a high fever while I wrote some of this. Thank you for reading, I hope to finish the second part within the week.


End file.
